where am I and what matter, in this town, Gubbio where the skies clear
where the wolf lies
buried in the churchyard where streets slop the hillside into rain
where in the painting the
little dog far down in the lower corner on the edge of the crowd lifts
his paw to Francis like
his brother wolf like her sister wolf a whispering in the heart, the
place where we walk,
together where tablets rise from plowed ground this fertile earth,
this lasting metallic taste
of language, just there at the tips of our tongues, where we raise
our hands to Francis, to
Gubbio, to not knowing where we are, and the clouds part, wherever.

FOR THE PO

a land given milk by the wolf, the water flowing through Rome –– Francis
takes the paw of the
wolf, Gubbio and its hillside churchyard these old, sacred lands where
the pawprint is faint
indeed –– we listen in vain for the songbird, search long for the bear,
end by wandering along
the flat river, Po to the sea, bird refuge, poison water –– somewhere
voices lifted, wolf song,
birdsong, singing back the milk of the land, the faint, holy voice
by the river.